


Impeachment Valentine

by Thymesis



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Adult Content, Chocolate Box Exchange 2018, Crack, Humor, Other, POV Second Person, Political Satire, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13323171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/pseuds/Thymesis
Summary: Donald Trump gets impeached…in his gilded, four-poster bed.





	Impeachment Valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [triplesalto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triplesalto/gifts).



You are President Donald J. Trump, and you like to watch television before bedtime.

“—unconfirmed reports that White House senior advisor Jared Kushner pleaded guilty on Monday for—”

You switch the channel to Fox News. They’re your favorite. The rest of those assholes are fake news anyway.

Your lawyers told you the Russia investigation would be over by December. Well, it’s now February. Shortly after midnight on Tuesday, February 14, 2018 to be precise, and you’re always very, very precise. Your lawyers lied to you. That makes you mad. And worse, they aren’t doing their job to protect your interests. That makes you madder.

On top of that, February 14 means Valentine’s Day, and you’re alone. You don’t have anyone to fuck. Melania’s back home in New York. So’s Nikki. And it’s not like you can just call in for a professional for a fast fucking when you’re the fucking POTUS. There are leakers _everywhere_ , you’re sure of that, even in the Secret Service. It doesn’t matter whether you’re at the White House or not. You remind yourself that you’re at Mar-a-Lago tonight.

Now you’re in the mood for some tweeting:

Wishing a Happy Valentine’s Day to the Real Americans who love their President! I bet the lying liars at @CNN @NBCNews and the Failing @nytimes won’t have Dates!

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) February 14, 2018

Except your phone is nowhere in sight. Shit. You probably left it on your dressing room table, next to the self-tanning lotion.

Oh well. You decide to take a Viagra and tuck yourself into bed instead. You have a picture of Ivanka handy, which is good. It’s under your pillow.

You’ve only just gotten your bathrobe open and your dick out when you realize you can’t hear the television anymore. It’s been turned off, and you need Sean Hannity to sooth you to sleep.

“Hey,” you yell, “turn that back on—”

“No, sir. Too much television is bad for you.”

A uniformed member of Mar-a-Lago’s private army of housemaids steps into your bedroom. You’ve never seen her before. That’s not unusual. There’s a lot of turnover. She could be a wop or a spic, or she could have some nigger blood in her like Obama, and she’s _old_. Coke-bottle-bottom eyeglasses, shriveled as a prune, and almost as small as one. 0 out of 10. She was probably a 4 when she was a teenager, though. Possibly a 6.

“Turn the television back on and show yourself out.” You’d really rather not pick a fight with the help right now, not when the Viagra’s just starting to take effect.

“Not yet, sir.”

She shuffles around your bedroom like she’s looking for something. You roll your eyes and try to ignore her. You give your semi-hard dick an impatient squeeze. She’s still not leaving.

“If you’re looking for the laundry, it’s over there,” you say as you gesture suggestively toward a gilded mahogany hamper.

“I’m not here for your dirty laundry, sir. Well.” She pauses to laugh at some private joke. You don’t think this is funny, so the joke must be one you’ve never heard before. You don’t like that. And she sounds like Hillary when she laughs. You don’t like that either. “Not _only_ your dirty laundry.”

She shuffles over to the hamper anyway and paws though its contents. You’re about to tell her to take the whole damn thing away when she pulls out one of your favorite red silk neckties.

“Perfect color for the holiday, don’t you think?” she asks, examining it from end to end.

She doesn’t seem to be talking to you, so you don’t answer.

She removes a bit of scotch tape from the back, wads it into a ball, and tosses it carelessly onto the carpet. She’s going to be cleaning that up later. “You know there are such things as tie clips, right?” she asks.

That was a question for you. You glower. “Tie clips are for—hey!”

Now she’s shuffling up to your bedside, your tie held out in front of her like an offering. You’re so shocked you can’t move. The help _never_ dares get this close to you.

“W-what are you d-doing?” You didn’t just stutter.

“Roll over onto your stomach.”

“Why—”

“And hold out your hands.”

For reasons you don’t understand, you obey without further question, and she knots your red silk necktie around your wrists and secures them to one of the bedposts at the head of your beautifully gilded bed. The knots are tight. You can’t free yourself.

“You’ve been very naughty, Donny Boy, and you know why you’ve been naughty,” she says. “So I’m here to punish you on behalf of the American people. I’m going to give you what you deserve, and you are going to take it.”

As she lifts her frilly maid’s skirt, you freeze. You would have assumed her cunt would be as ugly, shriveled, and dry as the rest of her. Instead, all you can see is a studded leather strap-on that would make any fag with a daddy fetish throw an instant boner.

 _It’s pointed directly at you_.

“Hmm,” she mutters, fiddling with the monster strap-on with one hand while straightening her Coke-bottle-bottom glasses on the bridge of her nose with the other, “the equipment is always such a hassle to adjust properly…”

“I’m building a wall to keep the likes of you out! You’re gonna be sorry!” When in doubt, use threats. Those usually work.

In this case, though, they don’t. “I was here before you, and I’ll be here after you’re gone,” she says.

“What, you some redskin or something?” You hadn’t considered that possibility. She doesn’t especially look like one, but hey. Fuck. Stall for time.

“Not at all. I was conceived by the founders of this country. I was written into the Constitution itself.”

You still haven’t read the Constitution, but you don’t need to because you’re a very stable genius, and because you’re a very stable genius, you suddenly have an idea of who she is. It’s those glasses.

“Wait, aren’t you supposed to be blind? You are. Blind! I know. I have a big brain.” You congratulate yourself on the steadiness of your voice.

“Ah, you must be mistaking me for Justice; she’s the one who’s blind. She’s also much older than I am. My name is Impeachment, and I can look at _anything_. There we go. All set. Now then. Time to loosen up, Buttercup. It only hurts in the beginning, I promise.”

Impeachment yanks your hips toward the edge of the bed and forces you to spread your legs. She is inhumanly strong. The dildo feels cold and slick when it brushes your asshole. You’re already rock hard from the Viagra. Dammit, you’d totally forgotten. She chuckles when she notices. You feel humiliated.

“Hey! Wait!” you plead, your voice abnormally shrill. “Tell me why I’m being punished!”

“Shall I recite the list to you? Very well. Article 1: Obstruction of Justice. Article 2: Violation of the Foreign Emoluments Clause. Article 3: Violation of the Domestic Emoluments Clause. Article 4: Undermining the Federal Judiciary. Article 5: Undermining the Freedom of the Press. Article 6: Associating the Majesty of the Presidency with Causes Rooted in White Supremacy, Bigotry, Racism, Anti-Semitism, White Nationalism, and Neo-Nazism—”

You’ve stopped listening. You start panicking. You try to twist and kick and bellow, but there’s no one to hear or save you. You can’t escape your punishment.

And actually, as it turns out, it hurts a lot.

***

You awaken with a jolt. There is nobody with you in your bed. That, ugh, _woman_ is nowhere in sight.

You are President Donald J. Trump, and you’re glad it was all just a dream. Thank you, God-You-Don’t-Believe-In. No, Congress isn’t going to impeach you today. You heave a sigh of relief…

…and then realize you can’t move.

Your wrists are still tied to the bedpost.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on January 9, 2018.


End file.
